


Chasing The Dragon

by arby



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Drugs, Dubious Consent, Fluff, Friendship, Gay For You, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Opium, Sharing Body Heat, Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-10
Updated: 2012-01-26
Packaged: 2017-10-29 07:40:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,379
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/317401
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/arby/pseuds/arby
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John catches Sherlock smoking opium, and it reveals a side of Sherlock he's never seen before. Note: Set in Season 1. No spoilers for S2. Dub-con warning is technical, for altered state/drug use.<br/></p><hr/><p>"I don't know what you're complaining about. I'm much nicer to you than everyone else with whom I interact. Well, you and Mrs. Hudson."</p><p>"There's your standards of niceness, and nice for the general public, and it's a <i>chasm</i> between the two. I'm just saying, don't ignore me for days on end, then expect to come crawling into my bed without so much as a how-de-do."</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

The first time John finds Sherlock high, he thinks he is sick. Sherlock, who keeps himself so immaculate, is lying all tousled and boneless on the couch, eyes half-lidded, those eloquent hands lax. It's as if his ( _massive, powerhouse _) brain is turned off. John rushes to kneel beside the couch, puts the back of his hand to Sherlock's forehead, for all the world like a worried mother instead of a doctor. He's a little cool. _So not a fever, then. _____

Sherlock turns his head, fretful as a child.

"What is it - Sherlock, are you ill?"

Sherlock frowns dreamily, then the expression melts into something else, a look John has never seen him wear. On anyone else it might have been bliss. His eyelids float shut like moths landing on the shelves of his sharp cheekbones.

Finally the picture clicks into focus and John sees it - an addict, reveling in his high, rolling in it like a cat. He looks to the table, where a small pipe lies, picks it up and sniffs. _Opium_.

"I didn't believe it before, when you admitted drugs in the house. Now I know better."

He stands up. Sherlock seems to be completely insensate. John stares down at him.

"Guess I'll leave you to it."

He doesn't bother taking care with the door.

* * * * *

When he comes back that night, Sherlock is typing on his laptop and completely ignores him.

"Oh, I see. You're just going to act like nothing happened. As usual. What about your _safety_ , Sherlock? What if I come in here one day and you've overdosed on heroin? Do you expect me to just ignore that, too?"

Sherlock doesn't need to look at him to convey disdain, it drips from his voice - also as usual. "Don't be stupid. Heroin is for degenerates. I would never do anything so idiotic."

"Oh really? And what's the benefit of opium that heroin lacks? They're chemically the same, aren't they?"

Sherlock rolls his eyes without looking away from his computer. "Heroin doesn't give you any psychoactive effects. Moreover, injections are messy. Far too easy to overdose. _Not_ recommended."

"I'm surprised that you of all people should feel the need to alter your reality artificially."

Sherlock doesn't dignify this with a response, nor does his typing falter or change speed.

John is at a loss. _Status quo, then._

* * * * *

He doesn't catch Sherlock at it again for a few weeks. This time Sherlock appears to be passed out, eyes rolling under trembling lids. John can't help it, he has to check, even though he smells the distinctive burnt-flower odor that tells him all he needs to know. He sits on the edge of the couch and leans over Sherlock, pulling up his right eyelid. Sherlock's pupils are hugely dilated. He's awake after all, and grabs John's wrist with one elongated, delicate hand.

"What're you doing," he slurs, and then he _giggles_ , a high-pitched sound more appropriate for a thirteen year old girl than the icy, self-possessed man John has come to know.

"Just checking to make sure you're still alive," John says disapprovingly, viscerally aware of the chill fingers wrapped around his wrist.

Sherlock smiles, manages to focus on him for a second, then shivers all over and drags his hand down John's arm in a strangely sensual manner.

"You should try it some time. It's pure _ecstasy_. It shuts out the thoughts, my God the never-ending babble of the brain," Sherlock says.

"I thought you worshiped your brain. It seems to be by far your favorite body part," John replies tartly.

"I do - it is - but sometimes I need a vacation from myself."

He stares at John, half-lidded eyes glassy and clouded at once, with a peculiar expression.

"What? Have I got something on.. on my face?"

This strikes Sherlock as amusing and he giggles again.

"Will you stop that? It's a _most_ alarming sound, especially coming from you."

"You _do_ have something on your face," Sherlock tries to lick his lips meaningfully, but spoils the effect by emitting a tinily amused _hee_ , "your mouth!"

John is conscious of a certain panic, the same feeling that hit him in the restaurant when Sherlock assumed John was making a pass at him. He wouldn't go so far as to call it a _gay_ panic, _per se_ ; more like the feeling you get when you're wading in shallow water and suddenly the bottom drops out from under you.

He's about to get up, go do something - anything to get away from being in this moment - when Sherlock lifts his right hand languidly and touches the side of John's face.

 _No, that's imprecise._ Being around Sherlock has given him a newfound respect for precision in language.

He doesn't just _touch_ it; he _caresses_ it, all the while staring at John as if John is a strange new species of creature he's never seen before. _Closetus Homosexualis_ , perhaps, _Australopithecus Ambisextrous_ , or maybe _Homo Bisapiens_. His hand is cold but his skin is smooth, and the touch ( _caress_ ) leaves echoes on John's flesh like rings rippling out from a stone thrown in a lake.

John shivers despite himself. It's cold in the living room, but the fireplace currently occupied by broken glass (don't ask) and the heat is controlled by Mrs. Hudson. He makes a mental note to ask her to turn it up - it's almost December, for Christ's sake. He wonders despite himself how cold Sherlock's room is, then mentally calculates the odds of the bed being even remotely usable for its intended purpose.

Reaching the obvious conclusion, John rolls his eyes and stands up. Sherlock looks disappointed. It's a measure of how far gone he is that John can read the emotion clearly on his face, for once.

"I'm going to fetch you something," John says, not unkindly.

Sherlock brightens. "Is it coffee? Actually no, I'd prefer tea at this juncture."

"It's neither, but trust me, you could use it."

"An even remotely semi-competent police force that actually _values_ my talents and hence refrains from wasting my time and/or belittling my intelligence with their moronic assumptions?"

"Ha."

John returns with a fuzzy blanket, swiped from his own room - where he has plenty, because _he_ is a normal human who respects his body's need for warmth to survive, unlike Sherlock - and drapes it over the scarecrow legs. He's about to leave when Sherlock stops him.

"Could you... sit with me for a minute?" Quietly. He even looks at John, ~~straight~~ right in the eyes.

John raises an eyebrow in disbelief, opens his mouth to make a cutting remark, then thinks better of it and closes with a snap. He has never heard Sherlock _ask_ for something before, as if John had the right to say no, instead of demanding or ordering or assuming the other person only lived to carry out Sherlock's increasingly ridiculous whims. Like being peremptorily summoned across town to lend a phone, told to text strangers with no explanation, or constantly having to prepare coffee/tea/biscuits. The sheer novelty of it stays him, and he sits next to Sherlock's bony hips - which Sherlock obligingly (!) attempts to shift to make room - then leans back a little against Sherlock's midsection. He can feel Sherlock trembling slightly against him, somewhere between shivering and shuddering.

 _Opiates lower core body temperature_ , he thinks, but doesn't say it out loud. He's not entirely sure that's all it is.

Sherlock's arm creeps around John's waist surreptitiously, unsure of its welcome. John’s stomach responds with the sensation of having missed a step. The silence that follows is companiable and rendered only slightly awkward by John's persistent foreboding of doom. They are on a slippery slope, poised on the precipice between friendship and something more... unsettling.

Sherlock's hand on his stomach twitches and the fabric of John's shirt slides up. John leans back a little more, and the hand snakes under, cold as a lizard seeking heat, coming to rest on his bare skin. John feels it acutely but says nothing. The room is still chilly, and John is getting sleepy with it.

Suddenly he makes a decision, and nudges Sherlock gently with his elbow.

"Slide over," he says quietly. Sherlock moves back on the couch, against the cushions, and John lies down beside him, nestling his back along the cool length of Sherlock's lanky body. John reaches over and pulls the blanket up to cover them both, then rests his arm atop Sherlock's. Sherlock's breath is warm on the back of John's neck as he lets out a small sigh. John notices that his breathing is deepening and he recalls that opiates also suppress lung function to cause fewer breaths per minute.

_That, or Sherlock is falling asleep._

He wonders if he could sleep too. It's getting quite cosy under the blanket; Sherlock is warming up as their body temperatures equalize.

 _Which is_ supposed _to be the point of this little exercise_ , he reminds himself reprovingly. Operative word being _supposed_. Afternoon is creeping towards evening and the weak winter sunlight is fading to the colour of watery tea. _If I made Sherlock tea that weak, he'd probably send it back_ , John thinks. _Or no, he'd probably drink it anyway, not noticing._ He must have made a sound at this, for Sherlock said, "What?"

"Just amusing myself. I was thinking the light looks like weak tea, and wondering what you would do if I made your tea that weak. Would you drink it anyway, or would you send it back?"

"Drink it anyway, but next time I wanted tea I'd remember to specify the strength. I prefer strong tea, generally."

"Good to know."

There was a pause. It seems less awkward now, even though they are basically cuddling, and after a minute Sherlock huffs softly against John's neck. It sends shivers down his spine and blood flowing to... other areas. _Who knew I'd a neck fetish?_

But it had been a laugh, albeit muffled, so he returns, "What?"

"Earl Grey or English Breakfast? The light, I mean."

John smiles. "What about something more exotic, like Darjeeling or Jasmine?"

"It looks more like a proper English tea to me. I think Prince of Wales."

"I didn't take you for such a connoisseur."

"I usually don't bother to mention it. I _am_ conscious of the fact that you're not household help." Hilariously, he sounds almost affronted at the idea.

"Are you? How nice of you. You know what would help with that? A little more _please_ and _thank you_ , rather than just barking orders."

Sherlock's mouth twitches at that; his lips brush deliciously against the top of John’s spine.

"Pleasantries are time-wasters."

"I know, but they do serve a purpose. Making people feel appreciated builds goodwill. If you value their feelings at all, which I know you usually don't."

"I see." He is silent for a minute. He seems to be thinking, but in a leisurely way that is entirely different to the usual laser-beam focus of his normal thought pattern.

"You're right - but you're the exception."

John smiles despite himself. “Am I?”

“It's not charity - your superior intellect earns you a higher status.” A pause. “That, and I don't mind having you around.”

“Gee, thanks.”

John wants to say caustically, _for more than fetching tea, I presume_ but Sherlock has already said the bit about him not being household help, and making Sherlock repeat himself and/or paraphrase is a hallmark of lesser minds. John already has his answer, so he just smiles and tightens his left hand where it lies atop Sherlock's.

Sherlock sighs in a big gust, again tickling all the hair at the back of John's neck. He tries desperately to control the Pavlovian shiver that it induces in him. Either he succeeds, or Sherlock elects not to comment, for the latter just murmurs, “Sleep now?”

“Sure,” John replies, though the part of him that is acutely conscious of every inch of Sherlock that is touching him wonders if he'll even be able to sleep. He closes his eyes anyway, willing himself to relax.

* * * *

He awakes alone, feeling a distinct disappointment even before he realizes what he's missing. Sherlock is perched on a chair, typing furiously.

 _We're back to normal, then_ , John thinks sadly. He waits for Sherlock to bark something peremptory.

"I didn't want to wake you, but I had several brilliant thoughts in that rest period," Sherlock says in a neutral tone, which is several steps above what John expected. He is too taken aback to say anything. Sherlock doesn't so much as glance at him, but John feels the pressure of his attention as he continues, "You're a restless sleeper. Talk in your sleep."

John's mouth quirks. "So I've been told. Hope it wasn't too disruptive."

"No. I only noticed when I woke up."

 _So where does this leave us?_ he wants so badly to say, but knows it's useless. Sherlock would fail to understand the question, and it can't end well.


	2. Chapter 2

A few days later, John has a rather strange dream.

He and Sherlock are in the poppy field from the _Wizard of Oz_.The blood-red poppies are casting a demonic light over the scene, but John feels peaceful, until he sees it – the field is afire. He turns to look at Sherlock, and as the stark, bloody glare falls on Sherlock’s face, the breath leaves John's chest as if he's been punched.

He wakes to that _smell_ again, and the source of his dream locale is obvious.

 _Just going to the kitchen_ , he tells himself unconvincingly.

As he passes through the living room, he can’t help but peek. Sherlock’s boneless as a jellyfish, but not fully passed out. ( _Yet_.) He manages to heave his eyelids open with what is apparently an enormous effort. His eyes attempt to follow John but fail.

John sighs. It’s late, and he’s tired. The last thing he wants is to battle Sherlock over whether he should go to sleep in a grown-up bed or be sorry in the morning with a crick in his neck from sleeping on the sofa. He lobs a remark over his shoulder like a grenade as he leaves the room:

“I have room for you in here, if you can arrive under your own power.”

He doesn’t look back, so he doesn’t get to see Sherlock’s face at hearing this. But an hour later Sherlock crawls into his bed, a gangling, huge figure whose hands and feet are cold as ice. Sherlock wraps himself around John not at all carefully. John is a bit cranky from having been woken up again, mutters a bit but soon they are settled down. Sherlock’s hand is on John’s midsection again. John is trying not to notice, when Sherlock says what is possibly _the_ most alarming thing John has ever heard him say (which is saying something):

“I’ve been reading about sex.”

At the same time, his oversized palm is drifting, slowly but with purpose, down to John’s lap - or where John’s lap would be if he were sitting down. John’s stomach is full of butterflies, and he may or may not be holding his breath. It’s an effort, but he keeps his voice steady.

“You don’t say? Masters & Johnson, or Kinsey, I presume?”

“ _Please_. I read those when I was 13. No, I didn’t want boring facts and statistics. I wanted to know what it feels like, what makes people want to do it. So I read Anaïs Nin.”

John is flabbergasted; speechless. The hand has settled in a wonderful, yet frightfully intimate place. _For a man’s hand, that is. As a landing spot, as it were._ And behind him proof is firming up to indicate that the mighty Sherlock Holmes is not entirely immune to the lures of the flesh.

“ _You_ , reading _erotica_? Now I’ve heard everything. And mystically written half-nonsense erotica at that.”

“Actually, I quite liked it. She’s an excellent writer at conveying subtle degrees of both emotion and sensations, and her fixation on the taboo finally made me see why anyone would bother reading – let alone writing – erotica.”

An involuntary reaction on the part of John’s treacherous prick indicates that at least part of his anatomy has some interest – a vested interest, even – in Sherlock’s newfound appreciation for sex. Sherlock’s hand is right _there_ , waiting, and his cock rises to meet it like a person coming back from the dead – a priapic Lazarus. Sherlock moves his hips a little, and John can feel his arousal pressing against John's arse. There’s something incredibly sexy about knowing you’re the one that he’s interested in - Sherlock the eternally unattainable.

 _There should be a word for this emotion_. _Terrified, but turned on. Aroused yet alarmed. The Germans probably have one_.

They probably also have a word for the way he feels towards Sherlock in general: deeply confused, sympathetic yet admiring. There’s a certain attraction there; John can’t deny it, try as he might.

There’s also something _incredibly_ gratifying about the little noise Sherlock makes when John presses himself back against his body. _To be the one to make him lose control.._.It’s unthinkable.

John needs... something. He moves his hands helplessly but due to their positioning, can’t quite reach.

He remembers that Sherlock has been talking, and fumbles for an answer, but Sherlock murmurs in his ear before he has the chance.

“The thing about taboos is that they only matter if one cares about the social norm to begin with.” His voice is low and ticklish. “I don’t, but – at least in this case – I think _you_ do, John.”

John is finding it delightfully hard to focus. He has to fight to form words.

“Are you saying you're finding it arousing, pushing my limits?”

“In a word: yes. As a heteronormative British man of your era, you find the thought of homoerotic activity quite taboo. Or am I wrong?”

“No, you’re right. And I’m not gay. I've never been... attracted to a man before.”

“Yet you find yourself attracted to me.”

The matter-of-fact way he says it gives John chills. He doesn’t bother to attempt to contradict Sherlock – he would probably start citing resting heart rates and pupil dilation statistics and correlating them with times John looked at Sherlock, or something equally irritatingly irrefutable.

“My _point_ is that it is exactly that cognitive dissonance on your part that renders what we are doing arousing.” Only Sherlock could have made that sentence sound sexy, instead of as if it came from a textbook. “And I feel it vicariously, through you.”

John’s brain is too busy turning to jelly to permit him to contradict that statement. Sherlock’s _hand_ is on John’s _dick_ , for Christ’s sake. How can he be expected to carry on an intellectual conversation about social mores with these kinds of shenanigans going on? But he feels compelled to clarify something first.

“But I thought you weren’t interested in sex at all. With men _or_ women.”

“I’m not - or at least I wasn’t. But _you_ are, and I’m interested in _you_.”

John gets that sensation again of having missed a step. But Sherlock’s continuing,

“And in my research I found myself becoming quite aroused at the thought of engaging in sexual activity with you.”

“So once again, I’m the exception that proves the rule.” Despite himself, John is smiling.

“Yes,” Sherlock _purrs_ (in the interests of strict accuracy; there’s no other word John can use to describe his voice here) in his ear.

But there’s one more thing.

“What about the drugs? Would you even have considered this... plan of action if you weren’t… you know?”

Sherlock sighs, right in his ear. John shivers.

“It’s well known - even among the barely literate - that recreational drug use lowers inhibitions. I cannot claim that it never would have occurred to me were I not using them, but you are probably right that I would not have pursued this course of action were I entirely in my ‘right’ mind.”

 _Hmm_.

“It’s just, here’s the thing - I don’t want to be... taking advantage of you in a vulnerable state.”

Sherlock huffs slightly, like an indignant horse. “Who’s taking advantage of whom? I seem to recall that I have done all the initiating.”

_He’s got me there._

“Yeah, but what if you regret it later?”

“That’s my prerogative, no? If it puts your mind at ease, I have thoroughly considered the question from all angles whilst not under the influence, and I still desire to pursue a deepening of our relationship.”

“I can’t believe you even think we _have_ a relationship. I was under the impression you didn’t do them.”

“Don’t be silly. Of course I do. They are not recognizable to most people because their stupid little minds are too hidebound to see them, that’s all.”

Throughout their conversation his hand has not faltered in its slow, steady motion. It’s driving John mad. Sherlock has, of course, not failed to notice.

“I can tell by your breathing that you’re enjoying this, on at least one level. Shall I continue?”

John is torn. On the one hand he desperately wants Sherlock to finish him, right here and now. On the other hand, he’s not sure he wants to wake up tomorrow having to face the fact that Sherlock gave him a J. Arthur Rank the night before. On yet another hand, part of him is afraid that if they stop now, they might never start again. That part greedily wants Sherlock, all to himself.

“I don’t know. I like it,” _suppose I can’t lie about that, the evidence is overwhelming_ , “but I’m a bit… afraid of the consequences.”

“If it helps, I do not plan on changing my behavior going forward based on what we did tonight.”

“That’s the problem with changing relationships, Sherlock - no one plans it, it just happens. And then _feelings_ get involved, whether you want them to or not.”

“But haven’t we already done that, by having this conversation?”

“Sort of, but there’s still a line we haven’t crossed. A number of them, actually.”

“You’re referring to acmegenesis? A minor bodily process. I don’t see what the big deal is, frankly.”

A truly shocking thought crosses John’s mind. He fights to keep his tone neutral. “Have you ever had one?”

“Aside from unconscious, involuntary physical reactions such as nocturnal emissions, no.”

“It’s different when another person is involved, somehow. It gives them a certain amount of power over you, to bring you to climax.”

This conversation is not helping his erection at all. His mind is flooded with images of Sherlock in the throes of passion, at John’s mercy. _God help me, it’s turning me on something awful._

“Ah. I see. Well, actually I don’t – unless you’re referring to dominance & submission, which I don’t think you were – but I suppose I shall have to take your word for it, as I cannot prove or disprove it at this time. So do you wish to make yourself vulnerable to me in that way now? You can say no, you know. I shan’t be offended.”

John may have crap luck with the ladies, but he’s been around the block enough to know something about that. _That’s what they all say._ Not with such precise diction, of course, but the sentiment is the same.

_No. I refuse to ruin this... whatever-it-is by not trusting Sherlock at his word._

“I think I need to think about it first. I don’t want to do something we might regret.”

Sherlock’s hand withdraws with shocking suddenness. John’s cock is already regretting his decision.

“Yes, of course.”

His voice sounds faintly melancholy, but with that, he lays his head on the pillow behind John and falls asleep in under 30 seconds. John shouldn’t be amazed by now at anything Sherlock says or does, but somehow he still is. _How can he sleep with a hard-on like that... oh._ The slightest of movements reveals that Sherlock’s erection is fading. John’s own refuses to subside. He’s wondering if he’s going to have to retire to the loo to take matters into his own hands, when he hears a strange sound in his ear. He realizes it's Sherlock snoring just as he falls back asleep.


	3. Chapter 3

The next morning John wakes alone in his bed, which does not at all seem suddenly quite large, cold and lonely.  Had he been acknowledging such feelings, he would have told himself sternly to stop being a prat. All in good time, or some other useless platitude people spouted at times like this.  
  
 _Times like what, exactly_? the part of his brain that stubbornly insists on carrying on this non-conversation with himself asks, _Times when my formerly asexual best friend decides to become interested in sex - with me! - but I can only really talk to him about it when he's pixilated on bloody_ opium _? And did I mention I'm not gay but apparently I'm into him? Put that in your pipe and smoke it, people who say that shite._  
  
Heh. _No pun intended._  
  
He rolls around in the bed, sulking, feeling sorry for himself, wishing... he knows not what. That Sherlock is a woman? The mental image this conjures up makes him laugh like a drain for a solid ten minutes straight. That there’s no physical attraction there? He cannot find it in his heart of hearts to wish that either. Sherlock is...Sherlock, and John wouldn't want him any other way.  
  
 _No, I just wish I could_ talk _to him about this stuff and not have to tiptoe around on eggshells._  
  
 _Well, why can't you?_ Devil's Advocate John whispers.  
  
 _Because I'm afraid,_ he finds himself answering, surprised into truth. _Afraid he'll shut me down, be mean, give me the brush-off._  And he couldn't bear it.  
  
 _Isn't that a bit of an ish in and of itself?  
  
Yes. Damn it all.  
_  
He gets up and dresses, suddenly feeling more than a bit glum, and dawdles over his toilet. When he finally manages to drag himself out to the sitting room, it’s nearly noon. He finds himself both fearing and hoping Sherlock is there.  
  
Sherlock _is_ there, sitting on the couch, an apparently untouched cup of tea before him, playing violin in a series of sprightly yet somehow simultaneously jagged runs. Hearing it gives John a feeling of nameless dread, rather like in Lovecraft, or “The Mist”. He pours himself a cup of tea from Sherlock’s pot to bide time. This was a strategy seldom used in horror, for some reason.  He stalls as long as possible with the cream and sugar, and digs some biscuits out of Mrs. Hudson’s hiding spot behind the bin liners, but eventually he still has to beard the dragon in its den.  
  
“So.” John comes out into the living room, cup in hand, and sits awkwardly, not knowing what to do with himself. _I hate this feeling._ It’s zero consolation knowing that Sherlock engenders it in everyone.  
  
He expects Sherlock to ignore him, but instead the curly head tilts to one side and the violin run changes to a quizzical upswing that almost makes him laugh aloud despite himself.  
  
“What am I going to do with you?” the words burst out of him without his intention.  
  
Sherlock fully swivels to look at John, and the violin repeats the questioning riff, a little gentler this time.  
  
“Look, Sherlock - if we're going to be even remotely serious about this whole... relationship thing, I can't be feeling like I have to walk on eggshells all the time around you unless you're...” he makes a sketchy hand gesture meant to indicate “high”, then drinks his tea, trying in vain for nonchalance.  
  
Sherlock's expression alters, but obscurely. He puts the violin down on his lap.  
  
“It's not that my, underlying feelings  towards you are oscillating. On the contrary, they are quite constant. I just express them  more…manifestly, when I'm. in an altered state.” He can’t help plucking a mournful string to underline his point.  
  
“I get that. But here's the thing, Sherlock - the way you express yourself matters when there's another person involved. I don't know if I want to be with someone who's always so...” _Cold? Cruel? Heartless? Selfish?_

A single plaintive note comes from the sofa, practically vibrating with noble self-restraint. He settles on “brusque.”

Sherlock is, remarkably, still paying attention, though he’s starting to bridle like a horse, nostrils flaring, and the whites of his eyes showing all the way round. John huffs through his own nose in exasperation, then begrudgingly rolls his eyes in the direction of the violin. Sherlock pounces on it in a single liquid motion, transformed in the leaping to a panther, his silk robe flowing into a sleek coat, glossy black in the golden light. Snatching it up, he plays wild shards of dissonant notes as if the music were drugs and he... Sherlock Holmes. He swirls around John in an off-kilter dance, alternately looming at John and half-falling away with every step.  
  
“I don't know what _you're_ complaining about. I'm much nicer to you than everyone else with whom I interact. Well, you and Mrs. Hudson.” A syrupy legato riff issues from the violin.

John sighs. _Obviously true, that’s just sometimes not saying much.  
_  
“There's your standards of niceness, and nice for the general public, and it's a _chasm_ between the two.. I'm just saying, don't ignore me for days on end, then expect to come crawling into my bed without so much as a how-de-do.”

Sherlock smiles and looms at him, as if by accident. His eyes are crow-dark, jesting. “I’ll make you a deal. _If_ in your professional opinion, I am acting like a wanker to you, you may consider yourself well within your rights to kick me sharply, wherever you feel it will do me the most good.”  
  
His expression deepens indefinably, growing more intense. Having that hawk-like stare trained on him makes John's stomach turn over yet again. _Stop being such a ninny_ , he tells it sternly.  
  
“Does this mean you are accepting my offer?” Sherlock sits down on the edge of the couch and plucks a sprightly fragment of gleeful sonata.  
  
“I... yes.” Again the word comes out of him, almost without volition. He can’t lie to himself for another second, he wants this, so badly that he almost can’t stand to admit it, because wanting things has always historically led to disappointment, either when you didn't get it or when you did and it turned out to be not at all as you'd imagined. What if sex with Sherlock is awful? The worst mistake he's ever made? _Just go back to being friends, I guess._ With the shadow of that awkwardness hanging over them, forever?  
  
Plus, it gives the other person power over you, when you admit you want them. _Just look at all the silly games birds play when you ask them out._ For a minute, he imagines Sherlock being coy – about _anything_ – and almost laughs out loud.  
  
Sherlock is still looking at him, though, has been watching John's face as he went through this thought process, and now he lays the violin aside and stands up. He comes over to where John stands and says softly, with a kind of serious _tendresse_ that makes John's skin itch, “You changed everything. I never knew why anyone bothered to have friends before I met you.”  
  
And then Sherlock bends a little – _not that much, thank you_! John has time to think defensively – and kisses him. His lips are wide and a little bit dry, and John's head tilts up towards him despite himself. At first it’s a little weird, there’s some inadvertent nose-wrestling and twisting about, but after a few seconds the wide mouth opens, none too softly, and a bracing clash of tongues ensues. John isn’t even sure why he finds himself breathing fast.

 _This is never love,_ John thinks dizzily with the small bit of his brain not reserved for cataloguing the sensations chasing each other giddily like cats down the live wires of his nerve endings, _Can’t be. Where’s the wine and roses, where’s the nice girl I can take home to Mummy?_  
  
It’s just Sherlock, after all - fascinating, mysterious, contradictory, maddening, arrogant, ( _gorgeous_ ) Sherlock, but “just” Sherlock is all he needs. Just Sherlock’s more than enough for him.

**Author's Note:**

> Chapter 1  
> 1\. "Opiates lower core body temperature" – source: Google  
> 2\. Prince of Wales tea is actually Chinese, but eminently British, being drunk in the UK with afternoon scones. Source: Wikipedia (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Prince_of_Wales_tea_blend)  
> 3\. "opiates suppress lung function" – source: Google
> 
> Chapter 2  
> 1\. J. Arthur Rank - British rhyming slang for "wank" (source: http://www.swingingcommunity.com/members/glossary.php?Display=J), tx Google!  
> 2\. "something awful" - can be British I think (forums were inconclusive)  
> 3\. acmegenesis - scientific term for orgasm. source: from the same website as above (http://www.swingingcommunity.com/members/glossary.php?Display=A)
> 
> Chapter 3:  
> General chapter note: All right, we have gone fluffy. I have no excuse. I was hoping for some lovely smut and instead the muse gave me a total cheeseball of a chapter.
> 
> 1\. "pixilated" - yes I know it means drunk, but somehow I doubt John would know the random archaic expression "kicking the gong (around)" that Google tells me was a slang term for smoking opium.  
> 2."put that in your pipe and smoke it" – highly doubt this is said in the UK but I just love that phrase, especially in this punny context. John could have gotten it from Afghanistan? #convenient headcanon  
> 3\. "give me the brush off" – I had "blow me off" here, but it bothered me so I looked it up Googled and the latter is exclusively sexual in the UK. The former was suggested as replacement by the WR forumites. (source: http://forum.wordreference.com/showthread.php?t=601076)  
> 4\. "a bit of an ish" – cutesy but British AFAIK  
> 5\. "dawdles over his toilet" - I wanted to use "toilette" here to avoid any unpleasant associations for Americans of John chilling ON the toilet, but that sounds a) pretentious and b) girly.  
> 6\. "zero consolation" – I think it is an Americanism, but don’t know a British equivalent. Google is inconclusive.  
> 7\. "how-de-do" - probably would be a Britpick, had I a beta, but I don't so there's no one to tell me I'm wrong and I'm using it anyway. Whatever!!!  
> 8\. "tendresse" - supposedly obsolete. I just like how it sounds and the fact that it's a noun makes it so much more convenient here. Again maybe a little OOC of John to use it.  
> 9\. "this is never love" - I have no idea where I got this sentence construction from but something about it sounds vaguely British to me. What can I say, my willingness to research seems to have left the building.


End file.
